


Made for Each Other

by D_Veleniet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (completely unscientific) DNA analysis, Gen, anniversary deductions, experiments gone awry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Veleniet/pseuds/D_Veleniet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John travel to America after receiving an odd request from a fan of the show..er...website.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made for Each Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eolivet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eolivet/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or John, as they belong to a long list of many other people and large corporations like the BBC. No infringement intended.
> 
> To my sister and her husband on their tenth anniversary - to ten years and to many more!

It was a lovely day on the quiet suburban streets.  People were outside, taking advantage of the temperate summer weather, and the bright sound of children’s laughter intermingled with the gentle sound of water lapping at a nearby shore.  Parents guided young children by the hand or pushed them in strollers as they walked around the block, dogs of various shapes and sizes sometimes trotting behind. 

So any passersby who noted the tall, lanky man in the dark suit and his shorter companion lurking near a tree at a bend in the road might not have deemed them as suspicious, necessarily so much as…out of place.  And it was a trusting, safe neighborhood so the fact that their attention was riveted on a particular couple pushing a sleeping toddler in a stroller as they came round the bend in the road also went unnoticed.

“Is that them?”  The tall man sounded like he could not be less enthralled with the couple in question.

“Yeah, that’s them.  Now – do try to be civil, please.”  The shorter man’s stern tone suggested this was a chronic problem. 

The taller man huffed through his nose.  “This is precisely why Idon’t respond to any inane inquiries on _my_ website.”  His tone was accusatory, and he flicked an annoyed glance at his companion.

The shorter man sighed.  “Yes, well…the request was a bit odd, but…sweet.”  He smiled faintly.  “And at least she provided us with all the material.”

“Yes, and I’m certain that the considerable sum of money she presented you with didn’t sway you in the slightest,” the tall man remarked dryly.

His companion cleared his throat self-consciously and looked pointedly away from the tall man.  This caught the tall man’s attention as he turned his laser-like gaze on him.  “No…”  He sounded incredulous.

The shorter man met his gaze with impunity.  “What?  Oh, c’mon, we both know she couldn’t afford it!  And Mycroft offered to take care of all the rest when he found out that it was to fulfill your end of our bargain.”

The taller man turned his gaze back on the couple, letting out an exasperated sigh.  “That is the last time I shall offer to make amends after an experiment has gone inexplicably…awry,” he muttered.

“Inexplicable?”  He gave a short laugh.  “Sherlock - do I _need_ to remind you of the new flavors that now accompany my takeaway when I heat it up in the microwave?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.  “You’re an army doctor, John; I would’ve thought you’d have a stronger stomach for such things.”   He straightened his jacket, sighing theatrically in resignation.  “Well – let’s get on with it, shall we?”  And he strode into the path of the couple, John at his side, stopping a few feet in front of them.  “Afternoon.”

The woman started in surprise, her mouth falling slightly open.  The man at her side tilted his head inquisitively, taking in the out-of-place dark suit on a summer weekend day. 

“Hello.”  His tone was friendly enough, but still had a question behind it.  The woman kept silent.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend John Watson.  We’re here at the request of…”  He trailed off, turning to John.  “What was her name?”

“Anna,” John supplied.

“Right – Anna.  She inquired on my colleague’s website if I would run some samples of genetic material she’d obtained from you and inform you of the results.”

John cut in.  “Oh – and she said not to worry about how she’d obtained them – something about how she’d renewed a past acquaintance with ‘THEM’ – and that would mean something to you.” 

Sherlock looked annoyed at the interruption, and John stepped back.  “Sorry – carry on, then.” 

“Yes.  Well – she did not say why, probably because she knew it would be obvious by the nature of her request – and also from my own observation - that you have a very dull marriage.”

“Sherlock.”  John’s tone carried more than a hint of warning, as he noted both the woman and the man start to frown at the insult.

“What?  Oh – yes.  I suppose Americans have a different meaning for that term.  When I say dull, I mean boring, tedious. “

“Not really helping,” John hissed.

“Why?”  Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised.   “I can’t think of a better compliment to one’s marriage.  Boring means predictable.  If it were unpredictable or in any way exciting or interesting, that would be because it was peppered with habitual rows over bigger issues or major discrepancies in how to raise your child.  Or because of some discovered infidelities.  But no,” Sherlock waved a hand towards them.  “It’s obvious you’re very much in sync with one another.  Even though you’ve been married - ten years, judging by the type of platinum, make, and general condition of your wedding rings.  And you, “ he indicated the man now.  “You obviously still view your wife as something precious, judging by the way you moved almost imperceptibly closer to her when we first approached.  Clearly she is still valuable to you, something to be protected.  And you,” He moved his hand at the woman, “You did the same –simultaneously moved almost imperceptibly closer to your husband, so clearly – deeply trusting and in sync with one another.  Also, your hands tightened on the stroller, your maternal instincts kicking in, ready to defend your son.  But not just because he’s your son –no, it runs deeper than that – because he is a part of your family.  Clearly you are building something and your husband is a part of that.  And how do you build it?  Well, that part is obvious.  Both of you are dressed very modestly, though your son’s clothing and the stroller are of nicer quality.  So you don’t waste money on anything frivolous, you put it into your family - the only disparity is the slightly newer shirt your wife is wearing, but you don’t mind that, no, - in fact you like it.  You like it when she feels a bit more put–together because you still see her as beautiful and you want her to feel that way as well.   You’re clearly both educated, but you are the one who works as a teacher while your wife stays at home with your son.  That part was obvious when you were stopped by a teenaged boy who clearly held you in high regard; you took on a slightly authoritarian air, displaying a fondness but still kept your distance.  And your wife used to work, but judging from her posture and the muscles in her arms and shoulders is used to bending and lifting something roughly thirty pounds – clearly that’s your son.  Also, based on the joints in her wrists and the red rimming around the eyes, she spends a lot of time at the computer.  And - from the way her fingers habitually curve even when resting – she spends a lot of time typing.  But not just typing – writing.  A blogger?  No, she values her privacy, wouldn’t share the details of her life with strangers.” 

Suddenly Sherlock snapped his fingers, pointing at the woman.  “A writer!  And probably much better than you give yourself credit for.  But you don’t give yourself credit for much in your life, do you?  You should try it – your husband would obviously support you as you support his writing.  No, not writing – though he does write as well – and obviously that was what brought you together, wasn’t it?  Common interests – so pedestrian, yet humans always find them so compelling.  Judging from your age, and how long you’ve been married, you didn’t meet in the workplace – so you met at university.  Now where do two people who have common interests in writing meet at university?  Judging by the book at the bottom of the stroller and the smudge of ink on your right thumb, you teach journalism, but ah, no school around here would keep only a journalism teacher, so you have to teach something else as well – English, most likely.  Two people who have a common interest in writing at university where one goes on to teach English and journalism – you met while working at a school newspaper, then.” 

He finished his last deduction with a flourish of his hand, taking a breath while the man and woman gaped at him. 

“But obviously one common interest wouldn’t be enough to sustain a marriage, let alone for ten years, so there’s more.  He quests for knowledge, but she quests for fiction – yet instead of being mutually exclusive, it draws you together somehow.  So what is the common denominator between knowledge and fiction?  Stories.  And what is the most common interest for two people who quest for stories nowadays?  The thing that brought you together in the first place was the newspaper, but what was it for?  Not the everyday reporting on mundane university events, no – it was that questing for stories. Your mutual love of watching telly.  Because television isn’t just something to pass the time for either of you, is it?  Not something you idly flip through to settle on some ghastly, overwrought melodrama with poor performances.   No, it is something that is carefully selected and scheduled – and it is something that continues to bring you together.”

Sherlock stopped for a moment as he whipped out a starched handkerchief, dabbing at his nose.  “Blast – I didn’t think I was close enough to react to the cat hair on your clothing.  Apparently, I misjudged.” 

The man and the woman continued to stare, wide-eyed, though the woman still looked suspicious.

“Oh, of course that isn’t the _only_ thing that keeps a marriage going – I may be a sociopath, but I’m not an idiot.”  Sherlock sounded defensive, as though someone had raised an objection to his deductions.  “Clearly you have similar views on things that matter – importance of family, morals, beliefs – both religious and political, views on how to discipline and reward your child, who does which chores around the house, who pays the bills – all that mundane rubbish that keeps a marriage going.  And yes, you’re clearly supportive of the other’s endeavours – she for the book he’s working on, and he for whatever pieces of writing she decides to show him.   So yes – it is these shared beliefs, morals, whatever you want to call them, these common interests, and this mutual support that keeps your marriage very dull – sorry – very _happy_ indeed.  Based on how you’ve done so far, you’ll probably be married another fifty, sixty years, barring some unforeseen act of God or freak accident.  Again – bor-…er…that is,… _good_ …for the two of you.”  He gave a tight smile.

The man and the woman’s expressions had now relaxed into cautious gratitude.  The man spoke first.  “Um…thank you.”

“Right.”  Sherlock sighed.  “Well – oh!  Yes, I’m to report on the results of the genetic material I ran – the whole purpose of this exercise in the first place.”  He dug into his jacket pocket and produced a paper with a series of lines on it.  “I was given samples of your tissue, which I ran through a microscope and was able to break it down into first the chromosomes and then the double helix so I could view the nucleotides adenine, thymine, guanine and cystine located within the strands of your DNA.   It appears as though each base pair on your DNA,” he pointed to the man, “complements exactly the base pairs on your DNA.”  He indicated the woman, then handed her the paper, which she received, dumbfounded.  “Not really the most novel concept – but based on this evidence, it appears as though your DNA proves that you are, quite simply, made for each other.”

The woman looked at the paper, trying to make sense of it.  “Um…thank you,” she finally ventured.

“So – based on the odd nature of the request, the fact that you’ve been married ten years, and that she asked us to approach you on this specific day, it is obviously an anniversary gift.  So then er – happy anniversary,” he managed haltingly, clearly unused to offering good wishes to people.

John smiled in approval at Sherlock, seeming to let out a sigh of relief.  He turned to the couple.  “Yes –happy anniversary and – many happy returns to you.” He smiled genuinely at them, then spread his hands apologetically.  “Sorry – we’ve got a plane to catch so we’d best be off, then.  Enjoy the day, though – it is lovely, isn’t it?”

The two men walked away from the couple, who already seemed to have forgotten the bizarre intrusion on their day as they tended to their just awakened son.

“Well – that was nice of you.  Thank you for doing that.”  John glanced at his watch.  “Oh – do you think we can get a taxi from here?”  He looked towards the main road.

There was no response, and he looked over at his companion, who was staring back at the couple, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Sherlock?”  He looked back at the couple, then at the detective, noting the expression on his face.  He folded his arms, his tone one of gentle mockery.  “Is the world’s only consulting detective actually getting sentimental about something?”

Straightening up, the smile fled the detective’s face as though chased away.  “Certainly not.  I was merely noting how the toddler already favors his left hand, though he kicks with more force behind his right.  Interesting.”  And with a whirl, he turned and started walking towards the main road, John following him.

This time, the passersby would not have noticed the tall man because he was wearing a dark suit on a summer day, hands in his pockets and a ghost of a smile on his face.

But if they had listened, mingled with the bright sound of children’s laughter and the gentle sound of the lapping water at a nearby shore, they might have heard faint strains from a deep baritone humming the chorus to “Rainbow Connection.”

 _fin_


End file.
